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A D1AMA 

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Cast of Characters. 

o- — — 

Alfred, Count de Maury,— a joung nobleman. 
Marquis de Maury — his father . 
Merincourt — a rich farmer. 
Francois — an overseer. 
Pierre- -a fanner's lad. 

Count Henri i 

Count Sector >• young noblemen. 

Count. Francois ) 

Lucien a peasant, 

Louis Phillippe. 

Servant to de Maury. 

Servant t<> Marie A ntoi nueUe 

First man. 

Second man 

•Jailor. 

Therese de Merincwnrt, the Daughter of the People 

Theraigne, the woman in Red 

Marie Antoinette, Queen >>f France. 
Ulemence de Gouvin —a ladv of the Court. 
Jeanne a servant. 



The BM.rs1 A.ct transpires at I^eiaje, the others in Pax-i* 

Period from 17S9 to 1794. 

J3|r REFERENCE Theirs History of the French liewhitUm 

COSTUMES — Period of LOUIS XVI., of France 



ACT I. 



Scene 1.— A Landscape. Large arbor, with scut. R, 

Enter Francois and Pierre, It 1. E. 

Fran. I. tell thee, thou must reform. 

Pier. Now. father Francois, how yon talk, Reform 
^ hat ? 

Fran. Thy work. Verily, thou art a lazy dog. 

Pier. Lazy ! N o w — _i > nw-- 

Fran. Nay, deny it not. Here have I bade thee finish 
yonder field, and yet this morning I find thai yesterday 
thou didst while thy time away. 

Pieu. You Ji r< ' wrong, I did not idle. I composed a son. 
net to Jeanne Listen, now, and let your old heart ieeeiv< 
;t taste of love. • 

Fran, Bah, fool! what has love to do with thy task** 
Will it gain thee bread? Work ! work S 

Pier. But how can a man work when he is in love. 

Fran. Thou art in love 'I 

Pier Aye, by the mass, frill of it. actually running over 
with it. Now listen to inv sonnet. 

M\ work is done, my charming maid. 
And all my thoughts are - 

Fran. Bah! gel thee to thy task, and if the evening find 
it not completed, I shall complain to the ma U-r. Exit Lj 

Pier. Now, only to hear old gray-beard talk. F don't 
believe he ever was in love. 

fjnter Jeanne, R. l. E. 

Jea. What, master Pierre, talking of love 

Pier. Ah ! there slm is. Lord bless mo, wheu she looks- 

a< me i shake away down to my shoes. I aside) Yes, I was 

divine: — ahem— 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PE<#PLE. 'I 

Jean. Ever thy way, all talk, no work. Ah, Pierre, 
Pierre, I fear that Francois will send thee off 

Pier. Now, 111 be bold and tell her I love her. Ahem 
Madamoiselle Jeanne, don't you think— 

Jean. Hush ! See, yonder walks our young mistress. 
She seems sad. 

Pier. Oh, you ought to have seen her last night, she 
looked like a ghost as she ran past me. 

Jean. There is something strange about her, I wonder 
what it is. 

Pier. I know. ( significantly) 

Jean. You do.. Now, tell me alK( drawing- closer) 

Pier. Poor girl, she is in the same boat with me, she's 
in love. 

Jean. Pierre,. you're a fool. 

Peir. Jealous, by the mass! Now, pretty maiden, listen 

Jean. Good-bye, here comes our mistress, Therese. 

( Exeunt, L. ) 

Enter Therese, R. U. E. 

Ther. Can it be reality, would he dare thus deceive me' ! 
Oh, it must have been a cruel drea'n. But yet I saw it all, 
heard all, those jeers, that wager. And he did not come to 
meet me as he used of old Bat no, it is all false, he is not 
untrue He in Leige, and not seek me at once? Oh, it is 
impossible ! I would as soon doubt that the sun up yonder 
was shining. How should he know that I have ever heard 
of his arrival [seats herself in arbor j I shall see his eye* 
brighten. How foolish it was to let thai wild dream hai ass 
me so, as if treason in Jove were not as impossible to hini as 
it would be to myself. ( voices heard) Ah, they are coming -- 
those voices! great Heaven ! my dream is. realized, it is true 
it is true. ( conceals herself \ 

Enter Counts Henri, Hector and Francis. L, . 

Henri. Not here, by Jove ! For once Count Alfred's 
vanity has gone ahead oi his success. 

Hect. Nay, this is better than success How it will en- 
rage him, to know that the pretty peasant girl has (-aught 
his disease of a treacherous memory, 

Fran. Ha, ha, capital, by Jove ! and we •have won. the 
wager. Ah, me, these women are the deuce 

Henri. But I say, this will be pleasant news for the old 
marquis, for with all Count Alfred's bravado, I know the 
old gentleman stood in fear of this girl, Therese. 

Hect. Ay, it took three weeks to drive her from his heart 



B DADGH'ia'fl "F THE PEOPLE. 3 

Fran. ha, ha. better call it his caprice. Who 

beard that a De Maury of his age ever had a heart. 
Henri But the old marquis way a good deal disturbed. 
The count, it seems, had carried Hume sentiment into his 
affair, and just now. when the people grow insolent, an affair 
oi this kind might prove dangerous. 
Hect, Then sh( belongs to the people. 
Henri. Luckily, no fiery brother may call him to ac 

i, since she is not of gentle blood. ' 
Hect. Only a daughter of the people -who will trouble 
df about her. Ah, hereco_ues Count Alfred. 

Euter Count Alfred, L. 

Henri: Ah. Count, your prophesies are vain. 

Alfr. indeed ! And was not my pretty peasant girl 
waiting for me, in yonder arbor? 

Fran You are thrown, my lord. 

Alfr. I hope yoU treated the maiden civil. 

Henri. Civil! Why. the girl was not here. We found 
the arbor, but not your rustic little beauty. 

Ai.fr. Then .she did not come. Well, she has not yet 
learned of my arrival. 

Hect. Mistaken, for we met a lad, who informed us that 
she had been here. 

Alfr. Ha ! informed of my coming:, and not at the old 
place Surely, you are mistaken. 

Henri Nay. I persist the lady has beeu in advance of 
your inconstancy. 

Alfr. I angrily) You persist in a great folly, then. 
Wait until to-morrow. I will show you. I tell you, mes- 
sieurs, she was not educated at Versailles, where love lasts 
only a single moon. You must not judge her by your 
court dames. 

Fran. Judge of a Belgian farmer's daughter by the fair 
ladies of Marie Antoinette's court. Surely, the idea is too 
amusing. 

Alfr. Well, wait, and you shall see. Wine may have 
made me a boaster, but it shall not be said on false preten- 
ces. But come, it is time to prepare our toilets. 

All. True. 

Alfr. Well, gentlemen, we meet again in the breakfast 
saloon. 

All. An revoir — au revoir. ( Exeunt omnes. <, 

Alfr. Strange i ; he was not here. What accursed folly 
ever led me to plunge so deeply. But I shall see her. (Exit L) 



4 THE DAUGHTER <*F TFIE PEOPLE. 

Thee. ( coming front C. ) The same men —the same voices 
— oh, my God, it is all true. I saw them, I heard them ; he 
did utter those words, I was not asleep. My God, my God, 
be merciful and let me die here. This earth, let it be my 
death bed and my grave. 

(throws herself on ground C. ) 

Eiuei Lucien, R 

Lucien. Why, Therese, what ails you ? 

Ther. ( rising) Oh, Lucien, I am miserable, would that I 
were dead. 

Lucien. Dead ! Nay, Therese, do not talk thus . Has 
harm befallen you ? 

Ther. Aye, such harm that my very blood curdles at the 
thought. But you, you will assist me. 

Lucien. I ! Why, Therese, I would die for you. 

Ther. Then here, take this note. Convey it to Count 
Alfred De Maury, and bring me an answer at once ( Exit R. ) 

Lucien. To Count Alfred De Maury 1 And she so agita- 
ted ! Surely, there can be no cause, she could not love him. 
Yet there is something wrong. If he has dared to deceive 
her, lord though he be, I'll tear his craven heart from his 
perjured bosom. (Exit, L) 



Scene II— jS Wood. 
Enter Jeanne, followed by Pierre. L. 

Jean. It's no use to talk, master Pierre, it's no use at all. 

Pier Oh, you cruel girl, to deceive an innocent youth 
like me. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I shall die with grief. 

Jean. You booby, stop your noise, or you will attract 
attention. 

Pier. I can't help it, I can't help it. Boo, hoo ! You 
know I love you, and you cast me off. Oh, oh, oh ! 

Jean. You are a fool, Pierre — 

Pier. I know it Boo, oh ! 

Jean. And if you don't stop following me around, I will 
inform Monsier de Menncourt of you. 

Pier. I tell yon what I'll do, I'll go drown myself. 

Jean. Where *? 

Pier. In the iish pond. ( Exit, R, Jeanne. L. ) 



THK DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 5 

'Scene III — JSxterior jf Belgian farmhouse. Large piazza 
at hack. (Doors ai hack, C. tnd R. JAoonheams on C. of piazza . 
Mo"NS. DE MerincOUBT seated on piazza, C. 

Meri. Where lingers my child ? All day long she hath 
been absent. There is something on her mind, her cheeks 
have grown paJe, her every action changed. I pray kind 
Heaven my child may not be wrong. [ Therese enters, L, 
goes up unperceived, and places arm around him.] Ah, stray 
one,, have you returned. Come sit here by my side awhile. 
Why is it, child, that you stay out of doors so much? The 
summer sun will make you brown as a berry. 

Ther. I did not expect you home so soon. 

Meri. Yes. yes. daughter, but where have you been ? I 
must begin to enquire a little .into these long rambles, for 
you are a motherless young thing, and so very pretty that I 
begin to have misgivings— 

Ther. ( starting ) Misgivings of what, father ? 

Meri. Don't be frightened, child. I am not angry with 
you, Heaven forbid. But it seems to me, Therese, that you 
have less time than usual for your farther. I did think 
when you left school and came home for good, that my 
child would be more with me. Nay, nay, girl — what, tears ! 
How foolish this is. As it' I were chiding you for loving the 
fresh air. Come, kiss me, little one, and you shall live out 
of doors, like the birds, if it will make you happier. 

Ther. You are a dear, good father. 

Meri. Come, let us go in and give the good people their 
s upper. 

Ther. Not to-night, father, I would not have them look 
upon me. You see, father, how the wind has torn through 
my hair. Besides, I am not hungry. 

Meri. Well, well, child, have your own way, but I would 
like to be assured that it is only lack of appetite that keeps 
you away from the table. But for this warm blood, child, 
I should fancy you were ill or pining about something. 

Ther. ( starting) 111, father! Ah, no, not that ; and as 
for pining, do I look .-ad? ( smiling) 

Meri. You look like an angel, child, or rather, you seem 
nearer like one of those heathen goddesses that were in 
place of our saints, in days gone bye. 

Ther. Yes, a goddess, father — a goddess among men. I 
would be that, rather than a saint, or an angel. What in- 
tlueiice have they upon human hearts, but to chill them ? I 
wish some one else had thought to call me a goddess first, 
though. 



b THE DAUGHTER OP THE PEOPLE. 

Mere Some one e)se. And who should that be ? 

Thee. No one. ( sadly) 

Mere Who, but your foolish old father, would think of 
searching the heathen paradise for a comparison for his 
child, while there was a saint left in the calendar. 

Ther. No one, I dare say. I only wish — that is, one 
wants new titles cnce and awhile, and it is so tiresome to be 
called angel, angel, nothing but angel. Saint would be a 
variety. 

Meri. Saint was the title for your mother. 

Ther. She is a saint, but I — L shall never be that. Her 
mission is in Heaven, mine on earth, where hearts burn and 
beat, and. strive. Yes, father, I would be a goddess, at 
whose feet human beings should bow, not an angel or saint, 
surrounded by creatures so pure and good, that they chill 
the imagination. So, call me a goddess, father, for I am too 
wild for an angel, and too wayward for a saint; 

Mere You are a strange child, aed I am getting to won 
der at you more and more. A countess would not act or 
look more proudly. 

Ther. Oh, if I were a countes ! I would give my life, 
only that life would become so precious then, that I could 
not part with it, Oh, father, why was I born one of tin- 
people, and yet given such thoughts and this face. 

Mere Hush, child, hush, these are dangerous questions 
and difficult to solve. Remember, that to our work-people 
yonder, our position is - rvy. They look up to you, 

even as you lookup to the nobles Be content, Therese, 
with the lot in which you are east. Your mother never 
looked beyond it, and she was as beautiful as yon are. 

Ther. And was she happy, father? Here, in the old 
farm-house, presiding over that long table, and dealing out 
food for those ravenous men — was my mother happy V 

Mere Your mother was happy, girl. She loved me, and 
I worshipped her. 

Ther. True, true, father, but she loved her equal and it 
w r as easy to I nt. She had not been taught pride 

among the pri lasses, by being educated with them, 

as you have educated me. Besides, you were no common 
man. Who could help loving so much g< - and 

patience? But where in all the land, is there another, not 
of rank, to •compare with you V When- 1 think of this, it re- 
minds me that I am born of the people. But those above 
us will never understand or acknowledge a greatness that 
lies in the individual. 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 7 

Mebi. True. 
. Ther. To the nobles of this land you and your daughter 
arc but peasants. 

Mebi. And what else should we desire to be ? While 
the hillsides, yonder, are my own, and all this pretty valley 
can be given as an inheritance to my child, is it not better 
to use our wealth and power in ennobling the humbler 
classes, to which we, in some measure, belong, than in envy- 
ing those who look down upon us. 

Ther. But, my education. 

Mere True; and I sometimes regret it, although it was 
a promise given to your dying mother. I could not refuse 
her, although aware how much danger lay in associating 
you with a class to which I did not even wish ycu to belong. 

Ther. ( angrily) And why not, why not? 

Mere Because, I would have nothing in common with a 
class of men whose vices keep pace with their power, and 
whose pride would trample you under foot, beautiful and 
perfect as you are, simply because of the blood in your veins. 
No, no, Therese, there is yet among our friends men who 
will be leaders of the people, and help to close the chasm 
which seperates nobility of caste from that of strengh and 
thought. 

Ther. Can you believe this, father ? Will the time ever 
come, when a nobleman would not feel it a degradation to 
unite himself with a daughter of the people ? 

Meri The time must come, child, when the people will 
assert their own rank — 

Ther. Yes, yes, but will the nobles acknowledge it ? 

Mere Aye, when the cry of " Liberty'' rings through 
France, they will be forced to acknowledge it. But these 
are weighty matters for a ehild. Come, sing to me. 

Ther. Not to night, father, the wind has made me hoare, 
I could not sing a note. Besides. I am so weary, and — 

Meri. Oh, these long walks are too much. Go in, my 
darling, and get some rest. [Exit Therese, door C] Strange 
girl. Would 1 could fathom all. 

Enter Pierre, door R. 

Pier. We're waiting supper, and I'm awful hungry 
Mere I am coming. [Exeunt, door R.] 

Enter Therese, door C. 

Ther. Now to know the worst. If he is false, then, fare- 
well earth, heaven, all things. {Exit, L.) 



THE DAUGHTER <>F THE PEOPLE, b 

Scene IV — Same as Boene I. 

Enter Lucien, L. 

Lucien. I wish they had received me with less laughter 
and withheld the gold. I wonder it her father knows of this. 
One thing is certain, I will not plant my foot inside that 
chateau again. These patricians treat us people as if we 
were not men and women with souls like themselves. Ah, 
here comes Therese to meet me. How 7 like a queen she walks. 

Enter Therese R. 

Ther. {eagerly) Have you seen him V 

Lucien. Yes, ma'm'selle 

Ther. Well, the answer. 

Lucien. He sent none. 

Ther. Sent none ! Oh — 

Lucien. Only — 

Ther. Only ! Well ? Go on, go on. 

Lucien. Ouly he bade me say, he would be punctual. 

Ther. Ah ! I thank you, Lucien ; it was kind of you to 
go my errand, very kind, and I will never forget it. 

Lucien You are welcome, ma'm'selle, but forgive me if I 
way a word, for I love you as a sister. What has made you 
acquainted with the young men at the chateau. How dare 
they speak your name so lightly ? 

Ther. Lightly ! Not he; not the young count, before you 

Lucien. No, but the young nobles. 

Ther. Lucien, dear Lucien, here is gold 

Lucien. Therese, what means this, your face is ^ bite. I 
hope no evil will befall you. 

Ther. What evil can befall me, Lucien, under my lather's 
roof. Are w T e not powerful among the people. 

Lucien. Adieu, Therese, Heaven bless you. it I ever 
have power — and we of the people will have power yet— the 
first fruits shall be yours. Adieu. [Exit, R.] 

Ther. Can he fathom my secret ! Ah, no. Ah! rome 
one comes. It is he, it is he ! (Enter Alfred, L. ) Alfred, my 
Alfred, I knew, I was sure, that you would come and ex- 
plain all this. [embraces him. ) 

Alfr. [seating himself beside her in arbor] What is ther« i to 
explain, ma belle, save that I am glad to see you once more, 
and still so beautiful. Has the time gone by quickly, since 
we parted 

Ther. Quickly ! Alas, Alfred, you know well, that evrey 
moment is leaden when you are away from the chateau As 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 9 

for me, I have no life when it is not shared with you. But 
you have been home now, two whole Jays, and this is my 
first moment — is not that cruel? 

Alfr. Exacting as ever, but as beautiful, too; and loveli- 
ness must have its privileges. Why, Therese, you forget that 
the marquis is up yonder, with guests from Paris, and I am 
not so entirely my own master, as when we first met. 

Ther. I know — I know. Twenty times, last night I said 
this to myself; bat with it all, I could not rest. I was here, 
Alfx*ed, after midnight. 

Alfr. Foolish girl ! 

Ther. Nay, I was up at the chateau, too, wandering a- 
round it like a night-bird I saw you, last night, Alfred. 

Alfr. (starting-) Saw me ! When and where ? 

Ther. I was on the rose terrace, while you were at supper. 

Alfr On the rose terrace, after twelve ! And what hap- 
pened ; what were we doing ? It was a wild revel, and not 
intended for female eyes — what passed, Therese, that you 
hesitate and look so sad. 

Ther. At first I saw no one but yourself — you were 
standing up, with wine in your hand. 

Alfr. Well, well, you were close enough to see that, but 
not to hear voices, of course. 

Ther. Yes, I heard and understood every word 

Alfr. Every word ! What were these words ? We had 
a wild revel, and many wild things were said — which of them 
reached your ears, my pretty eavesdropper ? 

Ther. I heard my own name. 

Alfr. Your own name. 

Ther. Yes, and on your lips, Count Alfred. It was well 
we did not meet then ! 

Alfr. And what would you have done, lovely termagant? 
Nothing fatal, I trust, or I shall fear to remain in this lonely 
place, where those eyes have done so much execution already 

Ther. I heard you speak of this place, also; I heard you — 

Alfr. No matter what you heard, Therese, it was a reck 
less carouse, in which many wild things were said. 

Ther. And among them was an offer to send those young 
profligates here, to meet me — me, your promised wife, in your 
place. I would not believe it, I doubted my own senses; I 
I would doubt the whole world rather than you, Count Al- 
fred; I came here in the morning with the first sunbeams, 
and here, in the spot made sacred by vows that still burn in 
my heart, I found these reckless men. 

Alfr. And } r ou were here, you saw them ? 



10 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

Ther. I was here. I both saw and heard them . In the 
fresh air, my name was bandied from lip to lip, as it had been 
caught up scoffingly from your rash challenge. 

Alfr. And they saw you ! 

Ther. Me? No. I heard their voices in time, and con- 
cealed myself. Their scoffs swept over me, as I crowded in 
yonder thicket— still I did not believe them — though my own 
ears heard the mocking words fall from your own lips, I was 
unconvinced as ever. My heart Hung off the truth, and re- 
jects it }^et. 

Alfr. You acted wisely It seems to me that I have just 
cause of offence. The chateau was"an improper place for von 
when it was over-run with gay cavaliers 

Ther. This, this, more than the other, strikes my faith to 
earth. Sir count, you love me no longer. 

Alfr. Not while you give way to these unwomanly pas- 
sions; not while you give heed to words uttered while the 
brain is fuming with wine, the reckless bandiage of a mid 
night reveJ, to which your own rash impatience was the only 
introduction. 

Ther. But this morning — those men — there was no mid- 
night revel in this hollow, while the dew lay bright upon it, 

Alfr. I tell you it was worse than that,. My father's 
guests kept up the carouse till morning, and followed it up, 
not only here, but to my own room. It is their mad ravings 
by which you would judge me. 

Ther. One word, one word, and I cast all tins away for- 
ever; tell me that you are unchanged — I heed not those reck- 
less words more than the dregs of wine from which they 
sprang, but now your thoughts are clear, your brain cool, 
tell me now, that you are unchanged, that you love me as 
ever, and I will beg your pardon on my knees for these false 
doubts Thus, thus, with my head against the true heart I 
iiave wronged. (Alfred puts her aside) You do not speak, 
y©u put me away. Your eyes— great Heavens! what is this. 
Will you not answer me ! 

Alfr. Upon my word, Therese, but it is worth while 
making you angry, one never knows how resplendent those 
eyes can become till they are taught to burn as now. 

Ther. This is evasion. Do you love me still ? 

Alfr. Love you, girl ! Why, Jove herself could not ask 
the question more loftily. 

Ther. There is nothing earnest in your words, Count Al- 
fred. You would quench my thirst with foam I will be 
answered honestly. 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 11 

Alfr. Well, propound your questions, I a\ . not in a 
s.-Tious mood; hut that look and voice will soon drive me in- 
to a frame of mind to suit your temper. 

Thkk I would ask if you have altogether censed to love 
me, if you have forgotten the past. 

AlfR. And I would answer, ma belle, not altogether have 
I ceased to love you. Human nature is frail, and a grand 
passion like ours' soon exhausts itself. The pleasantest part 
<>{ a romance like ours is the memories it leaves behind. 

Ther. Your voice has a mocking tone in it I have 
sought in vain for one frank look or earnest tone. Beware, 
Count Alfred how you trifle with a daughter of the people 

Alfr. A daughter ot the people ! Truly, I did forget 
that it was one of that class who dares thus haughtily to ques- 
tion a De Maury Therese, you should have known how im- 
possible it was for an attachment so unequal to last beyond 
the first weeks of its birth. 

Ther. (mournfully) It is over, [sinks to the ground. jQlfred 
makes a motion to raise her, she repulses him] lam going home. 
One more question and I leave this place forever. 

Alfr. Speak on. 

Ther. Y©n have ceased to love me, I know that; but these 
noble cavaliers said more, they spoke of a Jady at court, a 
persen whom they called Glemence; is this person my rival? 

Alfr. Do not 'question me farther. You are excited; this 
storm of passion is killing you. Some other time we will 
speak of this. 

Ther. For you and I there is no other time— and never 
will be. Again, I ask, has this person, whom your friends 
call Clemence, supplanted me in your heart ? 

Alfr. She is a lady of birth and fortune, a favorite with 
the queen, and my family desire her to become my wife. 

Ther. And you, dare you, pledged solemnly to another, 
bound to her by every tie of honor, dare you ask this woman 
to become your wife ! 

Alfr. Remember, girl, to whom you speak ! 

Teer. (Dare you ? 

Alfr. Dare ! ! I not only dare, beautiful termagant, but 
I have already asked the lady's hand in marriage. 

Ther. Count Alfred, we part now, but it shall not be for- 
ever. You have put shame upon a daughter of the people 
—the people that are growing stronger under insults and 
wrongs like this you meditate. I do not ask your love after 
this; it is as worthless as the bruised grass I tread on. 

Alfr. What, then, do von ask. Therese? 



12 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

Ther. Justice ! ! And I will have it, or, missing that, 
such vengeance as shall satisfy even the burning hate which 
has sprung out of the love you have just tortured tc death ! 

Alfr. Upon my honor, Therese, you would make your for- 
tune on the stage Why not go to Paris, novelty is wanted 
on the stage just now. 

Ther. Dastard ! I will go to Paris, [goes L ) 

Alfr. This path leads the wrong way; a few minutes will 
bring you in sight of the chateau. 

Ther. It is to the chateau that I am going. 

Alfr And for what object, may I be permitted to ask. 

Ther. I go to demand justice of your father, the Marquis. 

Alfr. What justice can he award between you and I V 

Ther. The justice every honest man should award a 
daughter of the people. 

Alfr. Nay, stop I regard you still too much tor this. 
My father would but wound your haughty pride more deeply 

Ther. Justice I will have, or vengeance. (Exit, L) 

Alfr. Well, have your own way. By my soul, I do not 
think you will gain much by the exchange, though, fair vixen. 



(Exit; L. 



Scene V — J± Wood. 
Enter Pierre, R. 



Pier. Oh, dear, oh, dear, Low sleepy I am, and so hungry 
Now, if I could only get the right side of Jeanne, I might get 
a chance to pick a chicken. But, oh — as I'm a sinner, here 
she comes. 

Enter Jeanne, L. 

Jean. Why, Pierre, lounging, as ever. I declare you are 
the laziest fellow I ever saw. 

Pier. Nay, I am ill, and so hungry. But I say, what 
have you got in that basket. 

Jean That, oh, it's only some tiilies for old mother Bail- 
lard, down in the village; she is sick, you know. There's a 
piece of roast chicken, a small pie, a bottle of wine, and— 

Pier. Oh! Oh! Oh! 

Jean. Why, what's the matter; you look pale as a ghost 

Pier. Oh, my, oh, my, you nearly took away my breath ; 
all those nice things. Oh, my. 

Jean. To be sure; the poor, old woman is sick. 

Pier. True, and come to think of it, I have some jelly 
for her. 



THE DAUGHTER <>F THE PEOPLE. 13 

Jean. Give it to me, and I will take it to her. 

Pier. Nay. it stands in my pantry. If I were not so tired 
I -would rnn for it. 

Jean. Never mind, I will run back for it. 

Pier. But, I say, it's no use to carry that heavy basket 
back; I will care for it while you are gone. 

Jean " Well, take good care of it 

Pier. Never fear. 

Jean. I will hurry. {Exit, L. ) 

Pier. Don't, for you might take cold. Chicken, wine, oh 
dear, oh, dear. Let's peep in. All here. Well, now I'm hun- 
gry, so here goes, (eats from basket) I declare, my conscience 
upbraids me for taking these away from a sick woman, but 
my stomach says f f go it.'. Here's your very good health, 
ma'm'selle Jeanne, (drinks) Oh, Lord, here she comes; I 
must hide. crawls behind soene R.) 

Enter Jeanne, L. 

Jean. A fool's errand; there w r as no jelly there. Why, 
where is the man. Oh, gracious, he has eaten everything up 
The wretch, I'll tear his eyes out. (Exit, R.) 

Pier, [coming- out, tipsy) Huzza! victory. Now for a 
good sleep in the barn. (Exit, L. ) 

Scene VI — ji handsomely furnished apartment in the Chateau 
(T)e J\dau,ry ; Candelebras, lighted; Marquis DE Maury seated R. 

Enter Servant, L. 

Serv. Sir, a lady demands to see you. She calls herself 
Therese de Merincourt. 

De M. She here ! What can it mean. No matter. 
Show the lady in. [Exit Servant, L. ] 

Enter Therese, L. 

De M. You wish to speak with me. Be seated, and say 
in what I can have the happiness to serve you. 

Ther. \reyoting- chair] Marquis De Maury, I have come 
to claim at your hands, the justice scoffingly witqheld by 
your son. 

De M. My son ! Upon my word, young lady, it is quite 
unfortunate enough at my age, to have a son old enough to 
be complained of, without being asked to atone for his mis- 
deeds. Is it some love passage, which my grown wisdom is 
to reconcile. 

Ther. Yes. it is a love passage, perhaps a common thing 
here; but, with us — with the people, who feel and think and 



14 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

are learning to act as becomes God's creatures — the falsehood 
practiced on the daughter of an honorable man, should have 
a more serious name — it is love's perjury that I come here 
to complain of. 

De M. You use strange language, young woman. 
Ther. Look at me, Marquis De Maury I am an only 
child, as you:- .son is; my father is an intelligent, proud man 
like yourself, save that his knowledge is of people, not of 
classes, and his pride the growth of individual self-respect, 
with its root in his own heart, not in the grave of a dead an- 
cestor; this man, my father, has centred all the pride and 
hope of his life in me; he has wealth and great power among 
the people, a power which extends to Paris, where the might 
of human opposition is growing strongest. True, we have 
no ancestry of the sword, but even your haughty line knows 
as little of disgrace as ours. 

De M. Nay, I do not comprehend this language, or these 
pretentions. If you are indeed a plebian, a fact that I — from 
your great beauty— r was disposed to doubt,, my son has in 
deed degraded himself, and I should be lothe to have his folly 
made more public. Yen did well to communicate with me at 
once. Alfred is a De Maury, and I would not have him 
tarnish the family name by any want of liberality. 

Ther. Liberality, marquis, liberality! 

De M. Well, what objection can you find to the word, 
young lady. 

Ther. Much, if it means 

De M. It means everything that is liberal, everything 
that can be expected from a De Maury to a man of your 
father's caste. 

Ther. Marquis, speak out if you dare; tender money to 
the girl to whom your son has pledged himself; say it in words 
that she may despise you worse than him. Talk of noble blood, 
if it were not black as sin your cheek would burn in offering 
this insult to me. 

De M. Well, what is it you desire. 

Ther. I have said that your son, Count Alfred, forgetting 
or seeming to forget, the distinctions that divide classes in 
our unhappy land, pledged his honor, as a gentleman, that 
before this time of year lie would demand me in marriage of 
my father. I claim the enforcement of this promise from 
his hither, the Marquis De Maury. 

De M. Ha, ha. Why, madamoiselle, are you in earnest. 

Ther. If ever a human soul was. 

De M. And you wish my son and heir, the favorite of 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOP '• I •) \ 

Marie Antoinette, and the affianced husband of the first lady 
of the court, to accept his wife from a i3elgian farm house ! 

-Theb. I do. 

De M. Upon my word, young woman, but that you are 
iful, I could find it in ray heart to be angrfy at this 
hardihood. 

Theb. You refuge, then; you sanction this base act of your 
eon. 

De M. Not at all, not at all. Even if he wished it, the 
remedy is impossible. In another month Count Alfred 
will be married. 

Theb. .And you will it so. 

De M. Yes, mademoiselle, I will it so. 

Ther. My lord Marquis, I must see your son, here, in 
your presence. 

De AI. With all my heart, {rings bell; Servant enters L) 
Paul, tell Count Alfred f would speak with him. (Exit Ser- 
vant, L.) Be seated, madam >iseile, you look weary. 

Teee. I am very , ory. 

Euter Count Alfred, L. 

Alfr. ' You sent for me. sir. Oh, I see why now. Mad - 
amoiselle loses no time. 

Thee {goes to Alfred and places hand on his ohair) Alfred. 

Alfr. Well, madainoiseJle, 

Ther. We loved each other once. 

Alfr, Well. 

Theb. At least I loved yon. The God who will judge be- 
tween us only knows how nam h 

Alfr. Go on. 

Thfr. It was a fatal love • perhaps for us both, for 

tin' evil will not fall on me alone. You are strong and I am 

weak; be merciful and save us both. Forget that you have 

faithless, that I have been harsh and reproachful; it was 

- dream that a soul like mine could 

be ■;. lung off; I. tell you, our love or our hate is eternal. 

De \i. Aified- 

Alfb. Nay, monsieur, spare your reproaches, you see 1 
sufficiently punished. Your admonition*, if one was med- 
itated, is superfluous. 

De M. i am pained and astonished, Alfred. 

Alfr. Pained, but astonished, I think, father. But, 
spare me — 

Ther. Spare you ! ! Spare me. Spare yourself the wild 

horror that I see coming rediy up in the future ! Oh, my 

my beloved, pause, pause, before you turn this 



16 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

mighty love into hate. On my knees, grovelling at your 
eet, I implore you to save yourself and me from the awful 
fretribution that comes stalking before us. 

De M. Her words chill my very heart. 

Theb. I do not plead now for love, but that you will save 
me from the cold hate that is creeping, even now, toward the 
soul that struggles beneath all this writhing scorn to save 
itself. I feel it now, writhing and tightening around the 
heart that was yours. A little time and the dove, now fright- 
ened and paralized, will die, and in its nest this withering 
hate will creep 

Alfb. Therese, Therese, for Heaven sake, cease ! 

Ther. Think, think, what it is to trample all the sweet 
hopes out of a life so young as mine, to wither up a heart so 
warm and full of its future. Search your bosom; see if there 
is not, in some corner, a spark of the old love that will save us. 

Alfb. I am unmanned; speak to her, father. 

Theb. I am no longer proud; I will not meet your change- 
fulness with acorn. Oh, how my heart aches again The 
tears that will not now are breaking it. 

Alfb. Therese, Therese — 

Theb. Mine ! oh, great Heaven ! he is mine again. 

Alfb. [putting her aside] Not so, Therese, not so. My 
answer was final; all is, must be over between us. lam 
grieved, deeply grieved, but my station forbids. 

Theb. Then farewell. You have put a wrong upon a 
daughter of the people. We shall meet again, (rushes offlj.) 



Scene VI— jS Wood. 

Enter Ptekre, L, intoxicated. 

Pieb. Bless me ! bless me ! what a crooked road this is to 
be sure, turning and twisting about, like the snapper on a 
postillion's whip. Wine, good wine, how I love thee. Sure- 
ly, Jeanne told me the wine wa9 strengthening, and so it is; 
I feel as bold as a lion. 

Entir Jeanne. L, with twe Farmkks. 

Jean. There he is; cudgel him soundly, 

Pieb. Now, I wonder what mistress Jeanne would say, if 
she could see me now. Bless her little tongue, how it would 
wag, to be sure. 

Jean. Oh, you wretch. Flog him soundly. [Exit Piebre, 
R, with Fabmers beating- him, Jeanne laughing] 



THE bAUGHTKR DP THE PEOPLE. 17 

Scene VII— Same as Scene [IT. fiffo de M 

seated on piazza. JTight J&oonlighh. 

Mere I declare it is late, and I must have been asleep. 
Where lingers Therese. Therese! Therese 1 
Therese glides in. It. 

Thek. I am hero., father. 

Mere Thank God, child, you are here. I had such a 
horrid dream. I saw a red Amazon prancing through the 
crowd on her white horse, with spurs upon her heels, scatter- 
ing blood tints all around 

Thek. And the woman — 

Mem. Was my own beautiful Therese. But, come, child, 
it is late, we must to our slumber. 

Ther. Then you will bless me, late as it is. You can 
never refuse to bless me, let what will happen. 

Mere (smoothing her hair) Refuse to bless my child. No. 
Come, darling. 

Ther. But you have not blessed me, yet. Lay your hand 
here upon my forehead, and promise, while the beautiful 
mother of Heaven looks on, that you will never refuse to bless 
me, never refuse me shelter in your house and heart. 

Mere Ther ese, are you wild. 

Ther No, no, my father. Hold me here a little while 
longer, then I will go away, f (Priests heard chanting midnight 
mass in distance. He blesses h-r, and exit, door G. ] Now, to 
Paris. Alfred De Maury, we shall meet again. (Exit, R.) 

ACT II. 

Scene I — t3 richly decorated pavillion in the palace of Louis 
XVI, at (Paris. Ceemence De Gouvin seated, C. QHstant music. 

Clem. My heart is not in this gay scene. (Enter Therese, 
at xvindoiv ai back. Ah ! 

Tuer (coming forward ) You are waiting for Count Alfred 
De Maury, but he will not come. 

Clem. " Who are you; who told you that I waited for anyone 

Thkr. I knew that he was coming here to meet some one 
but it evidently was not you, for the person he made the ap- 
pointment with was taller and of more commanning presence 
and when he came to the door a moment since, and saw you 
within, there was disappointment in his face, and he stole 
away again. 

Clem Stole away ! But he did not recognize my face . 



18 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

Thee. He did. 

Clem. You are mistaken, I made no appointment with 
any one As for Count Alfred, he has just returned to court, 
I have not seen him. You look incredulous — I tell you there 
was no rendevous between us. 

Ther. I am not incredulous, for I believe every word you 
say. Still, you came here hoping to meet your lover, for in 
this place you have conversed often. 

Clem Who told you, a stranger, these things ! You are 
not attached to the court, yet the most secret of my affairs 
fall scsffingly from your lips. 

Ther No matter who I am, Clemence De (xouvin can 
have nothing in common with me. 

Clem. You know my name, then, you will, perhaps be : 
tray me to the queen ! 

Ther. Betray you ! Why, are you not betrothed. to Count 
Alfred, 

Clem. No, no, not openly, not with her consent ; he fears 
to ask it. I beseech you, keep our secret. 

Ther. I will keep your secret. But why fear to inform 
her of 'an engagement she can find no just cause to complain of 

Clem. I do not know; it is his wish, and yet it must be. 
No man would dare to take me for a wife without the royal 
consent. 

Ther. [aside) This young creature moves me to compas- 
sion; it is not her I seek. This other woman, perhaps — at 
her voice my heart leaped as if to spring on an enemy. She 
is the person. Her accents were timid, as he addressed her; 
his manner humble, as it never was to me. even in those 
days when love tamed his pride so much. As for this poor 
child, she is but a flower that he will uproot and trample on 

Clem, (asid?) I will go. Of course, he would not guess 
that I would come here. To-morrow he will present himself 
at the palace, and all will be well again. 

Ther. You wish me to go. 

Clem. I do, though I did not like to say so. No one but 
the queen and myself have keys to this paviUion, and I d 
not leave it unlocked. 

Ther. No one but the queen- and yourself — ah, I compre- 
hend, (aside) The queen — she is the woman I veek. Fare- 
well, (g-oes out at window at back, L Exit, Clementine, door, R) 

Enter Marie Antoinette at door at hock, R. 

Marie. He is not here. Ah, he comes ! 
Enter Alfred, at door, R. 



THE DAUGHTER up THE PEOPLE. 1'.) 

A.LFR. My queen, this is very kind I hardly hoped to 
find you at the rendevous, for it was only a half promise that 
you would vouchsafe. 

Marie. Trust me monsieur De Maury, I had other 
reasons for granting this interview than you imagine. It 
was not to renew a dream that has past almost in the dawn- 
ing, that I came here. 

Alfr. Madam, you speak coldly, nay, cruelly. It was not 
with freezing tones and averted glances that you parted with 
rne only a few weeks ago. 

Marie. No, I have almost forgotten how long ago it was 
that you went into despair at the necessity that dragged you 
from court The king has just informed me of the double 
cause that existed for this despondency. It was contagious, 
too, for madame De Gouvin has pined, like a broken lily 
since you left the court, monsieur. 

Alfr. . (aside) The devil. My father has been premature, 
madam. If he has made the proposals you hint at, it was 
without my sanction. 

Marie. Indeed. And was it your father's' wooing that 
caused my young maid of honor to droop so pitifully; was it 
the marquis, your father, who met her so often in this pavil- 
lion. 

Alfr. It was my evil destiny, most beautiful of women; it 
was the mad love which made any sacrifice endurable, which 
promised to keep me in your presence; it war to be near the 
queen of France, that I forced myself to listen and approve 
my father's wishes regarding Clemence. 

Marie. You desired this meeting, perhaps, that I might 
be informed of this projected alliance. 

Alfr. No, I had not the audacity to speak. It is an inex- 
pressible relief that the task is spared me. Oh, madam, if 
you knew how deeply I loved you,how this insane passion has 
swept away all the ephemeral fancies of my youth, you would 
hardly condemn the madness which seizes on any hope that 
promises to keep me at your feet. 

Marie. Then, you wooed Clemence without loving her. 

Alfr. I love only you, my queen, you of all the earth. 

Marie. I believe this. To all others you are light of 
speech, graceful, careless; such feelings are too d^ep, too sa- 
cred for trilling. 

Alfr Oh, madam — 

Marie. One moment; understand me quite. The queen 
of France can never accept love. Remember, De Maury, 
when you speak to me again. I am the wife of Louis XVI., 



20 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

the mother of his children, the first lady of France. 

Alfr. But had you not been so, had fate placed you a 
little lower. 

Marie. It is useless, always, to ask what might have been. 
I am ill at ease. There is, at all times, a presentiment of evil 
in my heart. Do not speak of love, De Maury, but, oh, be a 
friend 

Alfr. I will be anything, your friend, your slave. I have 
many regrets, madam, and some memories which must sad- 
den all my future life, but, wild, passionate, reckless as he 
may have been, the man whom Marie Antoinette receives as 
her friend, never has known, and never can know love for any 
other woman. 

Marie. Adieu; henceforth, we understand each other. 

Alfr. Adieu, my queen, adieu. (Exit, door, R. ) 

Enter There»e. as before. 

Ther. So, madam, you love this man. 

Marie. Young woman, you have intruded on the queen 
of France. 

Ther. Madam, you have intruded on the rights of a hu- 
man heart. 

Marie. What is the meaning of this intrusion. But, that 
I fear to bring a punishment heavier than your youth and 
sex can endure, I would summon my guards. 

Ther. But, that you fear to bring a punishment on me 
heavier than I can endure ! Madam, do you know how much 
a young creature like me can endure. You are the queen of 
France, and have great power, but it has been already ex- 
hausted here. That which I have suffered is so much worse 
than death, which is the most cruel of your sovereign perog- 
atives, that that severity would be merciful to me now. Lady, 
do not despise me, for this moment I am more powerful than 
you. Many hopes are yours, many fears, too, the fears r more 
certain than the hopes. I hope nothing, fear nothing, yet, 
this once will I struggle. 

Marie. Poor girl, this must be insanity. Yet, it is to like 
reason, that it chills me. 

Ther. No, madam, I am not insane, unless to seek justice 
at court is a proof. I am not insane; a few moments since. 
perhaps, it was so, for what else froze me into marble, while 
he laid that false heart bare at your feet. 

Marie. He ? Of whom do you speak. 

Ther. Of Alfred, the Count De Maury, who left the queen 
of France a moment since. 



THE DAUGHTER <>F THE PEOPLE. 21 

Marie. You were here, then. 

Ther. I was here ; concealed behind that drapery, yonder. 

Marie For what purpose. 

Ther. I heard him make the rendevous, suspected that 
you. were the queen, and determined to appeal against him, 
here, in your presence. 

Marie. Appeal against him, girl ! What wrong can you 
have sustained from Count Alfred De Maury. 

Ther. The greatest wrong ; he has lured the soul from my 
bosom with a falsehood, and trampled it beneath his feet. 

Marie. How, girl ! Remember, you speak of a noble of 
France, you, a woman of the people. 

Ther. Hush, madam ; there is a sovereignity in the people 
of France, which you must not revile. 

Marie. You speak of Count Alfred, and of wrongs to be 
redressed. I cannot understand a charge so vague. 

Ther. Madam, Count Alfred was my promised husband. 
More than that, he has been my fate; yet you advise him to 
marry another, a woman whom he does not love, who has 
not the strength to love him. 

Marie. Count Alfred can love no one more than — 

Ther. Hush, lady. hush. Do not repeat his protestations, 
do not believe them, for I tell you they are false; he has loved 
others, he did love me, me, a daughter of the people 

Marie. And where did this engagement take place. 

Ther. At my father's house, a mile or two out of Liege. 

Marie. And did your father consent. 

Ther. No, madam. My father is a proud man in his way, 
and would have refused his daughter to a patrician of the 
court, for to the whole class he is an enemy. 

Marie. Indeed ! 

Ther. Aye, indeed Had Count Alfred been a king, so 
much the more would my father have refused him. 

Marie. And the marquis, how did he take the matter. 

Ther. He sneered at it pleasantly; with him it was too ab- 
surd for anger; the happiness of a plebian had no significance 
to him. 

Marie. And did Count Alfred ask his father's consent to 
this strange union. 

Ther. No, madam, he did not — but I did — not consent, 
for that was useless, but justice. 

Marie. And with what success. 

Ther. He offered me money. 

Marie. What else could a noble of France do. 

Ther. Much, he can atone for the insult with his blood. 



23 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

Marie. This is not madness, but hate. 

Tr^R. The inarqufs De' Maury repulsed me with an insult 
h : s son with a sneer, I fled from it all, and came to Paris, 
tVnking, perhaps, to And some mercy from my own sex. As 
one woman, wronged and suffering, may appeal to another 
; n the plentitude of her beauty and power, I bring my case to 
Marie Antoinette of France, and ask her, on my knees, not 
to fling me into the horrid dreams that have driven me from 
the shelter of my father's roof. See, lady, have pity on me, 
have pity on yourself; for 1 say most solemnly, that your fate 
and mine are more closely linked together than any mortal 
has yet dreamed of. 

Marie This is terrible. I will no longer listen. 

Ther. See, I am a woman like yourself; my heart is swell- 
ing like yours, with deep, human feeling; now, every throb 
is a pang, for I knew of a certainty, that he has ceased to 
love me and has given his soul to you 

Marie. What do you ask. 

Ther. I grovel at your feet, asking bat the husks of 
the golden fruit that was once all mine. Take this 
love, it is your's, and I do not wonder, for, God help me ! you 
are very beautiful. Keep his love, then, call it friendship, 
anything that may content a dainty conscience, but do not 
ask him to wed another. 

Marie. But this lady is of his own class, and she loves him. 

Ther. Loves him ! Away with the word, madam A 
thousand such natures could not give him one tithe of the 
worship that even now outlives all my wrongs, and strug- 
gles with the hate that lies festering here. 

Marie. Did Count Alfred seek this love ? 

Ther. Did he seek my love ! 

Marie. Aye, there is enough of wild beauty in your face 
to justify any sacrifice of pride; but — 

Ther. Do not fancy, madam, that the unblushing effront- 
ery which distinguishes the ladies of a court, has yet reached 
the people. Had Count Alfred been a king, he must have 
wooed the heart of Therese de Merincouot, or it had never 
been hie. 

Marie. I have do power over the affections of Count Al- 
fred or his actions. 

Ther. I ask nothing from his affections; mine have been 
too ruthlessly trampled on for that; but, I appeal to you, 
quenn of France, for that justice which is my right. 

Marie. But, the Count has offered — 

Ther. I ask Count Alfred De Maury to redeem his pledge 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 23 

and make Tberese <le Merincourt his wife — I ask nothing but 
lame to carry back to my father; at the altar, lady, I v ill 
give him lip forever. Let him remain at court, the slave of 
hie own pride, a serf at the foot of royalty; I ask but to re- 
deem an honest name; I ask only to be saved from a future 
of revenge and death, that will overwhelm us all in one com- 
mon ruin; I ask — 

Marie. Revenge and death ! is this a threat, madamoisselle 
Tiiek. A threat ! No, no; I plead, I implore, but do not 
threaten. Save me, save yourself, save him, from the terrible 
doom which awaits us Look on me; I am passionate, wild, 
mad, if vou please; a creature of the people; but I am human 
still; this heart is capable of great joy and terrible suffering; 
it has known both. This noble has tortured and degraded 
me; to hide it, I lied from under my father's roof, an outcast 
forced upon a destiny I abhor. Look upon me, lad}*; I am 
young, full of life, and beautiful, I think it must be so, or he 
had never sought my poor home. At this moment you can 
save me from a life of turmoil, and give back to an old man 
the Ian-; liter he has lost. Count Alfred does not love me, 
but you have double power over him; it is but a word from 
those lips, and the shame-spot is swept from my forehead. 
I will return home, broken-hearted it may be, but not writh- 
ing under this brand of shame. Lady, I implore you, speak 
the word, that I may bless yon forever. 

Marie I pity you from my soul, but this thing is impos- 
sible; it is impossible. Stand aside and let me pass. [Exit, 
door at back, R. Therese sinks to ground, C ] 

Scene II — -£L Street in (Paris 
Enter Pierre, in pastry cook's dress, R. 

Pier. Oh, dear ! oh. dear ! oh, dear ! how tired I am. 
Lord, don't I wish I was back in Leige. It's nothing but 
run, run. run, all day, ' Pierre, take this home; be sure and 
hurry." Don't I hurry ! Well not much, I guess. Now, I 
wonder how things are going on at the farm. I suppose lit- 
tle Jeanne is as saucy as ever. Oh, how my legs do ache. 
Hello, here c©mes a petticoat. Why, as sure as F _: a gentle- 
man, here comes — but, no, pshaw ! it can't be her — it is, I'll 
swear it's Jeanne. 

Enter Jeanne, L. 

Jean. Now, there's a nice looking young man, I wonder 
if he could not tell me. 



24 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

Pier. Nice young man ! She certainly doesn't know me. 
Jean. Young man, can you direct me to the Rue de Bois. 
Pier. Yes, follow this street three squares, turn to your 
right, go up two squares, turn to the left, keep right on, three 
squares, turn to the left again, pass the apothecary's; you'll 
know it by the big jars in the window; turn the corner and 
go down five squares, cross the street, keep up the narrow 
street, turn to your left, cut acrpsB the cemetery, and there 
you are. 

Jean. Oh, dear, you nearly took all the breath out of my 
body Turn to the right, turn to the left. Oh, dear I'll 
never find it. Please, good sir, couldn't you shew me the way 

Pier. Yes, provided you tell me what you want. 

Jean Well, yon see ; I'm just this minute come to Paris, 
and I'm looking after a young man called Pierre, Maybe 
you know him. 

Pier. Why yes, I know a large number of Pierres. 
What sort of a looking chap is he. 

Jean. He's an awkward, booby-looking sort of fellow. 
Very lazy, and always hungry. 

Pier, Don't know any such person. I know one Pierre, 
but he is a fine looking fellow, looks just like me. 

Jean Perhaps that may be him, What dors he do? 

Pier. Oh, he's a gentleman. 

Jean. That's not the one; my Pierre is a pastry-cook. 

Pier, (aside) Oh, ho! my Pierre ! Well, although h 
gentleman he does — ah — follow that business. 

Jean. Where is he; take me to him. 

Pier. Well I will. But, first tell me, are you his sister V 

Jean. Oh, no. 

Pier. A cousin, perhaps. 

Jean. Oh, no. 

Pier. Then you are his wife, perhaps. 

Jean. Not yet. 

(Pier. But hope to be. 

Jean. Well — but, I say, you shouldn't question me 

(Pier. Yes, I should. 

Jean. Why. 

(Pier. Because, I am the identical CPicrn 

Jean. You 

(Pier. Yes, don't you know me. 

Jean. Why, surely, it is. Oh, (Pierre, (embraces him) 

(Pier. How fortunate we met, Now, do you know, it was 
only this morning, as I awoke from a short nap, roused by 
master bawling, "(Pierre, where the devil are you,'' I said to 



THE DAUGHTER OP THE PEOPLE. 25 

myself, " Pierre, if you only had a pastry shop of your own. 
Then I suggested a wife, who could tend shop while I was 
absent. Then, I thought of you. Now, that it has all come 
true, will you accept me 

Jean. I will, if you promise me one thing. 

Pier. What is that 

Jean. Not to sleep so much. 

Pier, (yawns) Well, it's hard work, but I promise. 

Jean. You do. 

Pier. Solemnly, reverently; but come, let's go. [Exeunt R) 



Scene III — ■& richly furnished room. Ijay window, R, 

Therese at window. R. 

Ther The storm is over, the harvest fields lie flat and 
broken up. Of all the abundance that glowed here in the 
morning, nothing remains but one gloomy waste of ruin, over 
which the sunshine seems to laugh in derision. How like my 
heart. In place of the love I knew a few months since, all is 
desolation, while he, whose hated presence caused this, laughs 
in scorn. But, the time will come ! ! 

Enter Louis Philip, L. 

Louis. You find pleasure in the scene, fair sybil; while I 
but admire the beauty that seems made for a storm like this 

Ther. Yes, the sunshine is pleasant, but the storm, the 
storm for me. I love to stand amid its bowlings and laugh 
to scorn its pitiless, but useless beatings, so like the pulsa- 
tions of my own heart. 

Louis. True, for you looked grandly, a moment since, ma 
belle with the hail drifting through those tresses like pearls, 
and those lips parted like a prophetess, suddenly inspired. 

Ther. Your highness, I was inspired. This ruin has 
given me an idea, that, properly worked out, shall take a 
year from the bondage of France, and plant your feet upon 
her throne. 

Louis. And that idea springs out of the storm. 

Ther. It does 

Louis. Pardon me, I do not comprehend, my prophetess. 

Ther. Look aboad, your highness. 

Louis. I do, ma belle. 

Ther. Two hours ago the earth was clothed with a rich 
harvest ; from horizon to horizon all was golden and full of 
promise. 



26 THE DAUGHTER <>F THE PEOPLE. 

Louis. True; it was but this morning I remarked that 
France had never given her children so rich a harvest, 

Ther. And now all is ruin. Id all this broad arena, there 
is not corn enough left to feed the king's guard a single day. 

Louis. Nothing can be more certain But how is this to 
make me king '? I do not comprehend. 

Ther. The storm has spread perhaps, through all France 
— food will be scarce; aTamine must set in; fathers, brothers, 
sons, mothers, wives, children, all need food. Oh, your high- 
ness, there is great patriotism in hunger. The cry of Lib- 
erty rings loud from starving lips. 

Louis. But, how is storm or famine to bring Louis Philip 
of Orleans, nearer to the throne 

Ther. By making Louis Philip of Orleans, the benefactor 
of these suffering people. Let him turn the immense wealth 
which fills his coffers, into grain , there is yet plenty of the 
last year's harvest; and when hunger has made Paris clamor- 
ous against the court, feed the people over whom you would 
reign. He who controls the bread of a nation may laugh at 
the sword. 

Louis. It is a grand idea. It would make me king. 

Ther. As surely as the sun shall rise to morrow. 

Louis. And, how am I, a prince of the blood, to turn corn- 
merchant. 

Ther. Give me gold. 

Louis. You ! a woman; what would you do? 

Ther. Give me gold enough, and in a single month, your 
highness shall be master of food enough to famish or feed 
Paris. 

Louis. Gold to you ! and how would this be accomplished. 

Ther. I will accomplish anything. 

Louis. Not by yourself, ma belle. Heavens, but such beauty 
would find this traffic in grain a most sorry employment. 

Ther. When a woman seeks political power, she does nor 
act herself, but influences men to work out her wishes. 

Louis. Are you then so powerful . 

Ther. Your highness, there is not a Jacobin club in all 
Paris that does not work for Therese de Merincourt, young 
as she is, without knowing it, 

Louis. Are you thus connected ? 

Ther. I am. In these clubs I will find agents for our holy 
work — for is it not holy to feed the pcor. 

Louis. Do you indeed possess this power over the oanille ! 

Ther. Else how could I have brought fresh power to the 
potent Duke of Orleans ; else, why do the people greet him 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 27 

with cheers in the streets of Paris, while the king and queen 
are insulted in the same breath. 

Louis. And you have done this for me, how can I repay 
you. 

Ther. I will yet make you king of France; then, and not 
till then, will I demand payment; you will not refuse me then. 

Louis. I will refuse you nothing, my gratitude for these 
invaluable services will know n© bounds. 

Ther. You promise, then. Tis well, (aside) Ah, I shall 
see her yet, humbled to the dust. 

Louis. But you still my love, my adoration, with such 
cruel rigor. 

Ther. Hush, prince. I command you, let this subject 
rest between us, now and forever 

Louis. Strange, inscrutable woman, is there -no love in 
your inflexible heart. 

Ther. None. It is far easier for you to be made the first 
ruler of France, than to kindle one spark of love in my heart. 

Louis. But — 

Ther. No more. Adieu. (exit, R) 

Louis. Adieu, ma belle. (exit, L) 

Scene IV — -£L Oafe. JVLen seat-:d at tables , Jeanne waiting-. 
Pierre, G 

Pier. Well, what news, neighbor. 

1st Man Oh, nothing, I guess. 

2d Man Something, I guess. There'll be something 
afloat presently, that'll make these proud lords tremble. 

Pier. Why, you amaze me; I never heard anything of it, 

Jean Oh, of course not, you ar8 too sleepy. 

Pier, (yawns) Oh, no, I'm not sleepy, only I didn't know — 

Jean. Well, I did then; I knew all about it from the first. 

Pier. Then, mistress Jeanne, you should have informed 
me at once. Remember, you are my wife, now, and a wife 
shouldn't have s ecrets, eh, neighbor ? 

2d Man. Oh, bother, with your troubles; I tell you we 
have suffered too long, Why, we are but little better than 
dogs to these proud nobles. 

Pier. Look here, that's treason, and I won't have treason 
talked in my house. 

2d Man. "Treason, is it? Well, here's a toast to crown it. 

' Death to all nobles." 

Jean. [ to Pierre] Hold your tongue, you booby 

Pier. But, I say, that's treason. 



'28 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

1st Man. Keep quiet, friend Pierre, or the " daughter of 
the people" may cast her eye on you. 

Pier. Who is she ? 

2d Man. Why, she's the life of every Jacobin club in 
Paris. She's an angel, I'll be sworn 

Jean. So she is. Oh, my, can't she talk ! 

Pier. Can she equal you ? 

Jean. Can't she ! Why, if she was your wife, she'd talk 
you blind. 

2d Man. Come, mistress Jeanne, give us that chaunt. 

A.IR ■— Le Marseilles — Jeanne and Chorus. 

1st Man. What is to be the signal? 

2d Man Why, a bunch of ribbons on the breast of the 
" daughter of the people " 
Pier. I should like to see this strange woman. 

Enter Thekese, L. a bunch of tri-color on breast . 

Ther. You can be gratified, my good fellow. Good even- 
ing, friends, for I trust I am with friends. 

1st Man. Yes, ma'm'.selle, '' Liberty, and death to 1 tyrants' ' 
makes many friends . 

Ther. Yon have the password, then. 

Pier. It is, I swear it is. Don't you know me ma'm'selle. 

Ther. No. Where are you from? 

Pier. Leige. I worked on your father's farm. 

Ther Leige! my father ! (aside) Why should he recall 
those names at a moment like this ! Back, back, every trace 
of former days ! You are mistaken — what, Jeanne ! 

Jean. Yes, ma'm'selle; it was so lonesome after you left 
that I came to Paris. 

Ther. My father, tell me of him ! Is he well V 

Jean. He is, he is. 

Ther. Does he upbraid, does he — does he curse me. 

Jean. Oh, no, ma'm'selle, he loves you yet as dearly as he 
used, when he put his hand upon your head, and blessed you 
at even. 

Ther. He loves me yet; thank God for that ! 

Jean. But come, ma'm'selle, we will go back to him, lie is 
lonely, waiting for you. 

Ther. No, no — and yet, why should I not go to him — no, 
Fate hurries me on; France demands me now. [rushes out R] 

1st Man. Did you notice the tri-color ? 

2d Man: Aye, there'll be work, presently 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 29 

1st Man. To-morrow, we'll strike the first blow. 
2d Man. Down with all tyrants, say I. 
Jean. Drink the toast. 

Scene closes them in singing " Le Marseilles." 

Scene V — -ft ifoom in the (Palace. 
Enter Marie Antoinette and Clemence De Gouvin. 

Marie. Why so unhappy, Countess ? Surely, you .have 
enough for one little heart; Wealth, power, position, an ele- 
gant husband, a sumptuous home. 

Clem. Ah, my heart is filled with strange doubts. There 
seems a presentiment of coming danger. 

Marie. Nay, to-night you will forget all, at the grand 
ball, (noiee -without) What is that ! 

Clem. My soul sinks in horror. 

Marie. Nay, nay, it will not do to allow your cheeks to 
blanch thus. Remember, you are a bride. 

Clem. I strive to remember, but, alas! these dark fears 
intervene. 

Marie. Nay, come with me. [enter Servant, hurriedly, L] 

Serv. Your majesty, the king bade me seek you. 

Marie. What is the meaning of this tumult ! 

Serv. The people are crazed. They have already torn 
down the gates of the Bastile and even now advance toward 
the Palace. 

Marie. Who is their leader. 

Serv A woman, dressed all in red. She seems a per- 
fect tiger. (exit, L) 

Marie. Come, darling, let us go to the king. 

Clem. They will enter the palace. 

Marie. Some freak of the people. [" Le JfiarseMes'' heard] 

Clem. Oh, Heaven ! they are singing that fearful air. 

Marie Be calm; there is no reason to be affrighted. 

Clem. It was only yesterday I was hooted at in the public 
street; while one woman, more bold than the others, exclaim- 
ed, " now pretty your head will look on the palace gate." 

Marie. 1 will to the king ; a wife's place is by her hus- 
band's side (exit, R) 

Clem. And I to Alfred. (exit, L.) 



80 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

Scene VI — fi richly decorated chamber. fToise without. 
Enter Alfred. R. 

Alfr. What means this noise and confusiou. Fool ! fool ! 
that I was, to allow myself to be so bewitched by that woman. 
Her image seems to haunt me night and day; go where I will 
do what I will, her pale face, as I saw her last, riies before 
me. ' The populace seem like hounds let loose, noisy and 
turbulent. I fear some popular demonstration, [enter Ser- 
vant, hurriedly, L.] Well, what is your business. 

Serv. I bear this message from the queen, {gives note) 

Alfr. Ah, the queen in danger ! I must t© her side. 

Serv. Oh, sir, these are fearful times. The people are mud 
They demand admission to the palace, and I fear me much 
that they mean harm to the queen. 

Alfr. The Swiss guard. 

Serv. All slain, or dispersed. 

Enter Clemence, H. 

Clem. Husband, what is this I hear; the people in arms, 

Alfr. So it seems, and the queen in danger. 

Clem. My sad forebodings are true Oh, come, hasten, 
let us fly, let us quit Paris. 

Alfr. No, countess I am a noble of the realm, the 
queen is in danger; my place is by her side. 

Clem. But, they will not regard you; they will kill you. 

Alfr. While my trusty sword is in my hand, I fear not 
h score of these low cut-throats. (crosses L ) 

Clem. Whither are you going ? 

Alfr. To the queen. 

Clem. No, no, it is certain death. 

Alfr. Death before dishonor ! (to servant) See your lady 
safely to her chamber. Adieu. (exit, L.) 

Clem. He will go to meet them, they will murder him. 
Heaven, give me strength to meet this dire extremity, (exit, R) 

Scene VII — before the (Palace, ft great crowd, shouting-, etc. 
1st Man. Down with tyrants. 
2d Man Burst the gates. 
All. Yes, burst the gates ! 
1st Man. Who's to lead us ? 

TflER. (coming down, dressed in red,) I will lead you, I 
— the daughter of the people. 

2d Man Lead us on, to the throne. 

Ther. Men of France, we are standing before a doomed 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 31 

building. Before another hour, the people, who never dared 
to enter the sacred precints, will tread the halls of royalty. 
And she, whose costly garments were wrung from you by 
incessant toil, she will meet the fate of tyrants. 

1st Max. Aye, death to tyrants. 

Thek. Now, Count. Alfred De Maury, you shall behold 
both the women you have sworn to love. You shall see the 
peasant girl, the despised, make the queen of France crouch 
before her. Revenge ! Now, my men, burst the doors. 

c Ihe crowd surge against the doors, which finally yield, and 
they are about to rush in. when an OFFICER appears. 

Offi. Citizens, you are warned to desist. Eight hun- 
dred of the Swiss guard are standing before the queen, 
ready to defend her. 

Ther. Back to yeur queen, and tell her, that Theraigne 
has at her back, one hundred thousand men, who will die 
for her. On. my men, on ! 

TABLEAU — QUICK DROP. 



ACT III. 



Scene I — ^he QPalaae. Large doors at baok^ Marie An- 
toinette seated, L Great noise without. 

Marie. Still those terrible shouts, those terrible cries' 
Forgetful of all the forms of society, these fiends in human 
form knock at the palace gates, regardless of my guards. 

Enter Alfred. R. 

Alfr. Madame, my queen, you summoned me 
. Marie. Count De Maury, I am no longer a queen, no 
longer the woman you love; I am simply a mother, asking 
protection. 

Alfr. Have no fear. I am resolved. 

Marie You do not forsake me, then. 

Alfr. No, I can only die for you, that is all (the doors at 
book are bur*st open and the insurgents pour in) Back, fiends of 
hell, back I say, or my sword shall find a sheath in your 
base hearts. 

2d Man. Ha, ha ! Liberty, and death to tyrants. 



32 THE DAUGHTER <>F THE PEOPLE. 

Alfb. Back, I say. (the crowd seize and disarm him) 
Therainge. rushes down, C. 

Ther. On your lives, on your souls, if you have any, 
touch not that man. He is mine. Let his life be sacred 
here, everywhere; let the word be passed that no weapon 
shall be raised against him. He belongs to Theraigne. 

Alfb. Therese, I beseech you, let me die. Complete 
your vengeance, here and mow, See, I am ready. 

Ther. Ha, ha ! you are too forward. Not yet, not yet. 

Alfb. What more do you ask than the blood of a heart 
that has wronged you, 

Theb. What more ! Yon shall see (points to Marie.) 

Alfb. Have mercy, take my life, it is all I have to offer 
in atonement. 

Theb And think you that one life will atone for the 
wrongs that clamor through the city ! No, I will not be 
your murderer. There is not in all Paris, a head that will 
be held more sacred than yours. Though it wore a crown, 
Theraigne would save it. 

Alfb. But — 

Ther. Return yonder. See, the Austrian woman is 
trembling for your safety; go back, and tell her how ground- 
less are her tender apprehensions. You shall surely live. 

Alfr. [orossing to Marie. ] Madam, I am safe. 

Marie. Tell me, Count De Maury, who and what is that. 

Ther. Madam, do you not recognise your friends ? We 
have met once, in the pavilliou at Trianon. 

Marie. Alas ! I pitied you then. 

Ther. And I pity you now, as the hawk pities his prey, 
as hate pities the enemy it has been tracking with cold pa - 
tience. I thank you, woman of Austria, for appearing in the 
midst of an insulted people, with that man by your side, 

Marie. The Count De Maury. 

Ther. Aye. But for that I might almost have been 
your friend. 

Marik. He! Ah, me, I remember, you loved him. 

Ther. And now, better than ever. Oh, love was nothing 
to the mighty joy of this meeting. 

Marie. You know her, then ? 

Alfb. Aye, madam, and acknowledge, though my cheeks 
tingle with shame, that I have wronged her 

Marie. Will nothing appease her hate. 

Alfr. I fear not. She seems determined. 

2d Man. Down with the queen ! 



THE >AT7GH 'ER OF THE PEOPLE. 38 

Ther. Back. Take away this woman ; take her away or 
I shall kill her. 

1st Man Come along, come along. 

Marie. Farewell. Count, 

Alfr. [sinking xt her feet] Farewell, my queen. 

Ther. A last farewell. Let it be short. 

Marie. We shall meet above. (exit, L. ) 

Theb Now, Count !)e Maury, you begin to see the work 
ing of the poison you invented. 

Alfr. Therese, tell me in the name of Heaven, tell me 
what is the meaning of all this V How came you in Paris '? 

Thi:k. You are mistaken in my name, monsieur. 

Alfr. Surely, you are r J uerese de Merincourt. 

Ther. I am not Therese de Merincourt. 

Alfr In the name of Heaven, who are you? 

Ther. One whose name is breathed with blessings by 
every republican in Paris — Therainge ! 

Alf'd. No, no, you are the woman I once loved. 

Ther. No longer the woman you loved; no longer Therese, 
the farmer's daughter, but Theraigne — the daughter of the 
people ! 

Alf'd. Therainge ! 

Ther. I am. 

Alf'd. And are you that fearful woman, you, my Therese. 

Ther. I am what you made me. 

Alf'd You are' mistaken.. Surely, you must have seen 
that the union was impossible. 

Ther. I saw nought but that you loved me. 

Alf'd. I did, I did. Never since so fondly, so truly, as 
[ did then. Believe me, you were my idol. 

Ther. A summer pleasure, a passion of an hour, that 
swiftly passed away. New scenes brought new faces, new 
faces, new love. You soon forgot the farmer's daughter, as 
you knelt before the queen of France, and felt the soft inllu- 
<mce of her love. 

Alf'd. The fault was mine, I am prepared to meet your 
judgment; the queen has not wronged you. 

Ther. What right had she to usurp my place in your 
heart. I tell you, Alfred De Maury, you were not forgotten. 
I watched, waited, prayed f®r your return. You came, but 
in place of kind words and loving caress, you held me up to 
scorn. Step by step, you drove me, until you have made 
me my own, and my country's, avenger. 

Alf'd therese — 

'IiiER. theraigne! Keep back that name* nor attempt 



34 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

to desecrate it here. I will not have it traced through this 
herd of wild beasts, from your tongue. 

Alf'd. Let me call you by the name I used to call you in 
those happy days gone bye I called you then Therese. 

Ther. Therese is buried under the arbor, by the side of 
the Outhe. 

Alf'd. Woman, you will drive me mad. 

Ther. Even as you drove me in the past. Call me Ther- 
aigne, if you would be answered. 

Alf'd. I will call you anything, even by that hideous 
name, if you will but soften that iron look, and listen. 

Ther What can a noble of France want with me, a 
daughter of the people. 

Alf'd. I have much to say, much to crave. 

Ther. To crave from me! What, the Count De Maury 
How chagrined the marquis would feel to hear you say, that 
you crave a boon of the farmer's daughter. Ha, ha ! He 
would tell you to offer her money. Ha, ha ! 

Alf'd. In God's name, cease that taunting laugh and 
listen. 

Ther. I listen. 

Alf'd. Not here — not in this tumult. 

Ther. Where else should a daughter of the people hold 
converse with a noble ot the realm. 

Alf'd I must see you alone. 

Ther. Alone ! If you have aught to say, speak , all ears 
but mine shall be deal'. 

Alf'd. I repeat, I must see you alone 

Ther. So, you would meet Theraigne alone. Well, when 
and where. 

Alf'd. Anywhere, and any time, Therese. 

Ther. (aside) That name again; be still my heart. To 
night, at the Palace Royal. 

Alf'd. Not there, Therese. 

Ther. Wherefore ? 

Alf'd I would not willingly seek you in that man's dwell- 
ing. 

Ther. So, you believe this loud-mouthed scandal, you 
believe me capable of anything vile. You have put shame 
upon me, but no other can point his linger at me and cry 
' shame." You believe this. 

Alf'd. But, you ask me to meet you in the Duke de Or- 
lean's palace. 

Ther. Is there aught strange in that. The Duke is a 
gentleman. 



THE DAUGHTER OP THE PEOPLE. 35 

Alf'd But, you, a simple young girl from the Outhe 

a prince of the blood. What am I to think ! 

Ther. That Liberty takes rapid strides, drawing extremes 
together, that birth and position are nothing, in an age like 
this; creatures are now fitted together as God made them and 
nature directs that the strong guide the weak. 

Alf'd. But the prince is a man of the world. 

Ther. I guide and direct this unstable prince, ;is a child 
does a puppet, not, as you compliment me by thinking 
through his vices, but his weakness yields to my strength, 

Alf'p You do not know him; he is powerful, 

Ther. He has power, but I have a will which wields this 
power, even as it controls this wild, infuriated mob — as it 
shall hurl, before your very eyes, th.it haughty woman from 
the throne of France. 

Alf'd. Hold, Therese, ; this is insolent — it is uugenerous. 

Ther. True, and unwise — this is no place for hooting; 
and, more, my men are getting impatient, they wonder to 
s ee Theraigne conversing so long with the queen's favorite, 

Alf'd. Then, let us part; only tell me where we can 
meet again. 

Ther Aye. return, for her majesty will be anxious. 

Alf'd, You use the queen's name, coupled with mine, in 
a jesting tone. Sureky, you cannot mean — no, no, I cannot 
believe you s@ cruel — you do not mean her harm 

Ther. The queen knows my secret, she knows my power 
She knows, perhaps, that this sabre was won at the storm- 
ing of her pretty play-house, the Bastile, and fears that I 
may use it on a recreant lover. 

Alf'd. She knows your secret ! 

Ther. No more; go back to your post, Count, the queen 
I know, grows impatient, and you see how restless the 
crowd is. 

Alf'd. Not till you name a place where we may meet again 

Ther. I tell you, sir Count, it is not meet, What would 
the meek, pretty Countess say. did she know that her hus- 
band desired a private interview with a former mistress. 

Alf'd. My life must pay the forfeit, then, for I stir not, 

Ther. (aside) I will, I will. He must kuow my rival's 
name, that he may suffer still more deeply Count Alfred 
De Maury, I will grant you an interview, (takes out paper) 
Has anyone here a pencil. 

1st Man. Here's a bit of a one at your service. 

Alf'd (aside) My heart is sick with horror. Oh, by what 
h crowd of demons is she surrounded. They seem a group 



36 THE DAUGHTER OP THE PEOPLE. 

of hungry wolves, only held in check by her fascinating 
power, ready to pounce upon their prey. 

Theb Here is the address; Dot very legibly written, but 
you see how impossible it is to do one's education credit in 
this tumult. 

Alf'd. I will be there, though a legion of these fiends 
stood in my way. Farewell, (suddenly) Oh, Therese, would 
to Heaven I could save you from such scenes as this. 

Ther. They are of your own making, Count. Once, you 
might have saved me, I begged, implored, to be saved from 
the blood}' scenes which forshadowed themselves in the 
future. You scorned my prayer. 

Alf'd Will nothing save you ! 

Ther. Nothing, save a complete and final restoration of 
France; saved from the tyrants who have so long trampled 
on her heart. France tree, Theraigne will be content fci 
crawl away and die unnoticed. 

Alf'd. Inflexible as fate. Farewell. (rushes out, L. ) 

Ther. Go now, my faithful friends, I would be alone (exit 
crowd, doors, C. ) I will meet this haughty noble, will gloat 
over his sufferings; he can no longer appeal to my heart, he 
has too ruthlessly trampled out its life Once I might have 
listened to the pleadings of his voice; now, I am stone. How 
little does he dream of the fate I have in store for him. He 
dreams that my vengeance will culminate in his death Ha, 
ha, ha! He must live to see his idol dragged to the public 
block; live tc see her die like a condemned felon. France is 
roused; the people, sublime in their long suffering, and ter- 
rible in the spirit of Liberty, will obliterate the race of nobles 
from God's earth, leaving it to the tread of honest republi- 
cans, w r ho shall execute their own laws. Ah, how my brain 
whirls. I fear it is true what Hortense told me, I am grow- 
ing mad. I pray it may not come before I have executed 
my vengeance. (exit, Rj 

Scene II — fi Chamber. Enter Alfred, R. 

Alf'd. Ruin, ruin, stares me in the face; not only me, 
but those I love. Horrible thought ! knowing their danger, 
yet cannot avert it. I must see her again, must sue for 
mercy for my loved ones. Hate ! hate ! thou art stronger 
than love, and live when love is in it's grave. (Clemence 
glides in, L. ) My pretty dove. 

Clem. My lord, oh, my lord, you w r ere in the midst of 
that terrible group of men. 

Alf'd. Yet you see I am unharmed. Fear not, darling. 



THE DAUGHTER <>F THE PEOPLE. ■>> 

be clash of bheir Bab < b, W< h •• s< 
cry, .-'■'} my soul trembled foi yon lafe 
unharmed. 

Alf'd. My poor wife. You see that I am .- 

Clem. But, you are so still so coldly white. 

Alf'd Nought but tine excitement of the past hour. 

Clem Seek not to d< cei'v i me; is tl is courage or despaii ? 

Alf'd- Co; . . pay poi 

Clem. But, yom I >oks eb?11 me, th 
is l^ke snow. ^ 

Alf'd. But yon see that I am calm. 

Clem. Oh, but this pale calm is terrible. What did that 
woman in the flaming garments say to you. 

Alf'd. She threatened me, but her threats were idle. 
She knew me to be the queen's favorite, and sought to in 
timidate me 

Clem. Her face was fearfully beautiful, like one that 
haunts me sometimes. Alas ! the poor queen. 

Alf'd Go now to the queen, Cleuence, she has need of you 

Clem. Oh, would that I were the queen. 

Alf'd. What, now, when those fiends menace her very life. 

Clem. But she has loved — she has been beloved. ( hides 
hcrfaae on his bosom) 

Alf'd. Nay, this is unwomanly. To the queen at once; 
comfort her, tell her that all that mortal man con do to save 
her and her children, will be done, (exit Clemence, L. ) Now 
to meet this tigress. Fearfully beautiful ! Aye, so she was; 
even more beautiful than when I wooed her in that well- 
remembered arbor, beside the Oeuthe. {exit, R. 

SCENE III— fl Garret THEBESE paoiog the floor 

Theu. Oh, unkind fate! Why did I leave my father's 
roof. Bah, such fancies make me womanish, I must be ad- 
amant. He will come, he will see me here, and the poor girl 
whom he knew in a farm-house, will dictate terms to him. a 
noble of France. Beware, Count Alfred De Maury ! I loved 
you with all the passionate love of a guilt-less heart, you re- 
jected and trampled on my heart, crushed out its better feel- 
ings, turned my love to hate, such deadly, bitter hate, that 
I tremble when I think of it. Love ! hate ! the two passions 
which rouse the heart of woman to deeds of unexampled won- 
der. He does not come, [goes to window] Ah, there I see 
him. Look how his proud head is bowed. Already has my 
vengeance begun, he has felt it ; but the end, the end ! 



38 THE DAUGHTER OP THE PEOPLE. 

Fntcr .' lfred F 
/ rn Therese! 

Thee. Yon wished to see me alone. 

Alf'd. I d'd, to crave a boon. 

Ther. What ! does the noble of Franc ,ht if 

beneath him ' me 

' ■ -\ ' \ ' 

Alf'd. I only came to crave a boon. 

Ther Sp ere b ; I am hero, in my 

own home. ^. 

Alf'd. Is this your heme, Therese ? The Palais Royal 

Ther Belongs to its Prince ; I am of the people. I did 
but mock when it was mentioned for this interview 1 
md this alone, is my home. 

Alf'd. How unlike — 

Ther. The boudoir in my father's house, you would say 
It is as it should be — love is luxurious, hate austere. 

Alf'd. I remember a time when nought but love came 

om that tongue, when there was no such word as hate on 
those lips, Therese. - 

Ther. Yes, there was a time:; I think it is long, long ago. 
Many a Lurid stretch of life lies between this room and then. 
I was young and happy, roaming at pleasure over my father's 
fields. I was happy, for I loved one whom my fancy painted 
as all brightness and goodness. Do not. do not recall those; 
happy days, unless you wish to have me bate yon more than 
ever! 

Alf'd. Tell me this is not hate Remember the 
the olden days. 

Ther. 1 cannot, this deadly passion has absorbed it all. 

Alf'd. If you have ceased to love me, Therese, you can 
yet be generous 

Thee. What generosity showed you to a daughter of the 
people, when you ruthlessly trampled on her heart, 

Alf'd. I swear to you it was not I, so much as my birth, 
that wronged you. 

Thee. True, your birth; the noble and the peasant, 
your birth, that was the fiend which led yon away, up and up, 
till it stopped only at the throne, which totters to its centre. 

Alf'd. Yes, the people will carry down the throne. 

Ther. 1 will carry down the throne, and with it the 
woman for whom you forsook me. 

Alf'd. You mistake — the countess was not the cause of 
that abandonment; it was the difference in station, of thought 
of habit. 



THE DAUGHTER K rHE PEOPLE. 

Ther. Tel] a not a daughter of the people, pu 

in i virtuous, a peer to the dazzling, wicked women of the 
court. True, there was a difference, but it waa on the wrong 
side. It wouuded your self-love to lift Therese De M 
court to your side, but there was glory in pursuing M 
Antoinette in her exaltation. 

Alf'd But the Countess- I do not love her, as I loved you. 

Ther. It was not of that harmless girl you have tnad< 
countess, that I spoke, but of the queen of France 

Alf'd. The queen of Fra 

Ther. The queen of France. Ob, it was a mighty H 
to love a queeni ane be loved in return. 

Alf'd. Yon speak of a pure, noble woman, Therese. and 
you couple me with her. 

" Ther. Aye, you love Marie Antoinette — do not seek to 
deny it — I have seen, have heard all. 

Alf'd. You wander. What mean you of the queen. 

Ther. She is the rival on whom my heel is placed. When 
1 avenge myself, all France shall breathe more freely. We 
gave her a guard of women to-day. had I but waved my 
hand, her head had ornamented a pike, side by side with 
those ©f her guard 

Alf'd. Therese, Therese, this is horrible ! 

Theb. You think so, you who have so mercilessly aban- 
doned me. Count Alfred De Maury, it is just. The crimes 
of the aristocracy have trampled down the bosom of France, 
a? you have trodden on my heart; this woman is the enemy 
of both; when one is avenged, the other will tremble for joy. 

Alf'd. Therese, f have wronged you, but — 

Ther. Wronged me ! Ha I ha ! you can share with me the 
agony I once felt in my father's home. You have wronged 
me, deeply, foully, but* the vengeance is fast coming. 

Alf'd. * Row deeply I regret that wrong, God only knows. 
I know that you are powerful among this frenxied people; 
this day and its events prove it; life and death, even of the 
most exalted, hang on your will, for when anarchy reigns, 
power is capricious. 

Ther. Life and death are struggling no w;* France is 
aroused; the people, those who u yoa looked down upon in 
scorn, whom you re iuced to mere slaves, have arisen in their 
majesty and power, and will never r >st, nntil every patric ian 
in the land shall be humbled 

Alf'd But make me alone responsible for my own sins. 
At all times I bare my breast to your vengeance; but on me 
alone let it fall. As for the queen — 



40 THE DAUGHTER OP THE PEOPLE. 

Thee. You love the queen ! 

Alf'd As the tree love the starlight that kisses its leaves 
at night; who dare love that noble woman with less respect. 

Ther. Soon, monsieur, very soon, you shall look for this 
starlight through the bars of a prison. The drama of the 
revolution is but just opening ;on the ruins of the Bastile we 
will erect the scaffold which shall fill her drained ditches with 
the blood of kings. 

Alf'd. But, the queen, Therese, she has not harmed you. 

Ther. She has torn from me the love that once was mine 
That is her wrong, let her atone for it all, and I am content. 

Alf'd, Therese, this is horrible; you do not mean it. 

Ther. As surely as there is a God in Heaven, I am earn- 
est in this thing. 

Alf'd. Remember, I was young, arrogant, reckless, but 
not s© cruel as you think. Is no atonement possible; can 
nothing quench this hate of the innocent ? Point out some 
way by which I can redress — 

Ther. Redress ! redress ! Where is your power ? Can you 
give back the bloom to my life; the innocence to my heart? 
Can you take the withering scorn from men's lips; can you 
return me to my home, to my old father, whose head is white 
with the ashes of my shame ? Can you sweep Theraigne 
from the history of France, and leave the young girl who lov- 
ed you, in peace on her father's hearth ? Man, man, you 
cannot remove a single atom of the ruin it was so easy to make 

Alf'd. In the name of Heaven, listen to reason ; let not 
this maddening hate remove your better judgment I can, 
i will make atonement. 

Ther. I tell you there is nothing left in the world for me 
but vengeance, and that I will have . 

Alf'd. Let it fall on me, then, I am ready to die. 

Ther. Die ! ! As if that were vengeance ! No, you shall 
live to see the woman you love, dragged through the mob ; 
to see her hooted at, her beauty the scoff of men whom she 
would disdain to tread on, her head in the dust — 

Alf'd. Hold ! I cannot hear even the name of that angel- 
woman torn by this fiendish hate. {exit, R) 
Ther. Ha, ha, ha! (faints.) 

Scene IV — fi ijPcom, in Pierre's house Enter Jeanne, L. 

Jean. Oh, dear, such awful times ! They are going to ex- 
ecute the queen. Well, now, poor soul, if I am a republican, 
I do pity her. What noise is that. [ Enter Pierre. L, drunk, 
singing " Le Marseilles. "] Oh, you old brute, where have you 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 41 

been. You wretch, you — 

Pie.k. Young female-eh-I want you to distinctly under- 
Btand-eh-that I am master bere-eh-by Jove. 

Jean. Ah, little did I think that it would ever come to 
this. I was a nice, tidy, young girl when I married you; 
but I ought to have known better. 

Pier. Yes, my love, all right. 

Jean You always did like wine. I remember the time 
you stole old mother Baillard's wine. 

Pier. Wasn't that clever, eh ! " Dot your Is, cross your 
T's," that's the by- word to-night, at the club 

Jean. You are not going out to the club, to-night. 

Pier. Eh ! what ! rebellion '? My own household to rebel. 
Oh, young female-eh-you have wounded me -eh- -to the in- 
nermost sole — of my boot 

Jean. Go to bed, you odious wretch. 

Pier. No, I'm going to the club. (sings) 

Jean . I say you are not 

Pier. I say I am. 

Jean. Well, we'll see. 

Pier. Exactly~eh— my dear; just what I told Francois. 

Jean. You are a drunken brute. 

Pier. All right, my dear, set 'em up again. 

Jean It's a shame, for a man who has a charming young- 
wife, to be all the time drinking and spending his money. 

Peir. Money, my dear, as my good father once remarked-. - 

Jean. Oh, hang your father ! 

Pier Yes, my dear, all right — but, he used to say, that 
money was made— eh— to spend. 

Jean. Well, if you will persist in going out, I know what 
I'll do. There's lots of young fellows coming here, and I'll 
just take my pick and run off with one of them, (exit, L) 

Pier. No, I'll be damned if you do. (ez:t, L) 

Scene V — Jl (Prison. Alfred seated, C. 

Alf'd. How changed ! A few weeks since the inmate of 
a palace, now my home a prison She, Therese, has poison- 
ed all, made life one gloomy future. 

Ther. [gliding in, R.] She has. Every joy has been 
turned to sorrow, every dream dispelled, every hope crush- 
ed, never more to rise, while I, I alone the cause, mock you 
in your misery. 

Alf'd. Therese — 

Ther Count Alfred, speak not that name again. Ther- 
aigne, monsieur, if you would have me listen to you. 



42 THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 

Alf'd. Theraigne, then; listen to me. 
Ther. Speak, I am all attention. 

Alf'd. I will; but first take away that horrible look from 
those eyes, it chills my very soul. Oh, Therese, tnere are 
moments, when, gazing back into the past, I almost regret 
that I so falsely proved. 

Ther Hold, hold ! I will hear no more of that. 
Alf'd. You must, you shall, for those eyes beam gentler 
when I conjure up the past; that icy nature dissolves away 
when I speak of olden times. 

Ther. Oh, I cannot bear to think of the past. How very, 
very happy we were, Alfred, in our old home, at Leige. Night 
after night I crept to the old arbor, and listened to the delu- 
sive phantoms of future bliss you brought forth into being 
My kind old father, too, how tenderly his hand used to lie 
upon my head, as he blest me. And the old farm-house, 
how pleasant it seemed, in those long summer afternoons. 
I used to sit and gaze at your father's chateau, and imagine 
the day not far distant, when I should be its queen. 
Alf'd. (aside) She wanders; she is going mad. 
Ther. Will those happy days never, never return, oh, tell 
me, tell me, Alfred, will I never feel that holy peace again ? 
Alf'd. Therese, you unman me. 

Ther. Yes, Therese, that was the name you used to call 
me, as we wandered through the grand old woods. But, 
surely, this is not my home; this is a prison. Oh, Alfred, 
take me home. 

Alf'd. My poor girl, you ask an impossibility. 
Ther. Come, let me lay my head upon your breast, as I 
used to do, and speak to me as of old Why, how white and 
pale you look. You have been ill, my poor Alfred, very ill ; 
but I will nurse you. Hark ! I must return home, or father 
will miss me. Ah, how cold the air is ! Good night, dear, 
dear Alfred, I will be with you again to-morrow. Why, how 
you look at me; you do not kiss me — ah ! I see all, know all, 
now; you are false false! you have deceived me. Air, air, 
for God's sake, give me air ! (faints, C. ) 

Alf'd (bending- over her) This is killing her. A few weeks 
at best, and all will be over. Soft, she revives. 

Ther. [avoiding him] Away, Count De Maury, your 
touch is pollution. I have been wild again. They tell me 
I am going mad, and I believe them, for these attacks are 
becoming more frequent. 

Alf'd. Would to Heaven, that I could save you. 

Ther. Keep your pity, I do not need it. Count Alfred, 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 43 

the end is fast approaching. Ere to-morrow's sun shall rise 
my destiny will be accomplished, my vengeance completed. 

~ Alf'd. You are ill and speak at random. 

Ther. Never were words more truly spoken. It is not 
illness, it is inspiration. To-night France will be wild with 
joy, she will have no queen. 

Alf'd. The queen ! you have seen her, then ; tell me, will 
she be suffered to leave France ? 

Ther. Ha, ha, how the blood mounts to your face at the 
mention of the queen's name. You love her, and so do I — 
but there is a vast gulf between those loves. I have watch- 
ed her with an eagle eye, rest assured she is safe; you will 
see her soon ! 

Alf'd. What, is she — are we both to be free ! Oh, woman, 
words can never thank— 

Ther. Enough. Are you weak enough to imagine that 
the iron \ieart of Theraigne, after having waded in seas of 
blood to attain its object, will relent. No, no, you misun- 
derstand me. A few moments hence, you will see the queen 
—see her on the way to execution 

Alf'd. Horror ! execution ! Will they murder that blame- 
less w T oman. Therese, you are powerful, oh, intercede. Be- 
hold me at your feet, suing for mercy for Marie Antoinette. 

Ther. Alfred De Maury, when you came to me a few 
months since and told me that of all women in France, I 
alone, held your heart, I believed you, trusted you. You de- 
ceived me, made me a blight, and cast me off. Then, I knew 
that another had superseded me in your affections, and from 
that hour I doomed her — whom she was, I knew not — to cer- 
tain destruction. I came to Paris, and lo ! the queen of 
France was my rival. There was an abyss between us, but 
I held straight toward my object, revenge on my seducer and 
my rival. Fortune has changed; to-day, the poor, deceived 
peasant girl holds in her hands two destinies, that of her 
rival, the queen, and of her betrayer, Count De Maury. Tell 
me, Count, how have I kept my promise ! 

Alf'd. As the tiger holds its prey. Away, you are 
hideous to my sight; I despise and spurn you. 

Ther. To-night, haughty lord, you will slumber beneath 
the sod of a paupers grave; your idol, the queen, will rest 
beside you 

Alf'd. Death has no terrors for me, let it come. 

Ther. But life has. Ah, you will drop your haughty 
bearing full soon, Count, {bed rings) Hear you that bell ! ! 



44 THE DAUGHTER OF THE BEOI 

It summons Marie Antoinette to a public execution. H 
to the savage shouts, and look, your loved one appears. 
drags him, to window, R. ) 

Alf'd. 'Tis she, 'tis she Oh, Heaven, had you no oth 
arrow but this to pierce my heart. 

Ther. Those tresses have altered somewhat, Count, s c 
last you met her; see, they are white as driven snow. Heai 
how the peopee curse her. 

Alf'd. rlounds of Hell! Oh, were I free but for 
ment, onl) one, : ;hat. I might tear their cowardly hearts out 
Release me, Tberese, and if you wish my death, give rne dj 
sword and let me die amidst that crowd of hooting deiD 
die for im queen,' defending her honor to the last, 

Ther No. tfhere is no terror in death, but there is ID 
Alf'd This is fearful anguish. 

Ther Say you so; then, know how my heart, seared b> 
thoughts a thousand times more bitter, must have suffe 
But, see, she raises a hand toward this window; :juick, that 
she may see you. Look up, lool up rir Count. 

Alf'd. She mounts the scaffold; her step is firm. God! 
how proud she looks. She kneels, she prays. I can look no 
longer, (turns away. Shouts he 

Ther, France is free, my vengeanc< is almost completed: 
A few moments hence you tread the same path. 

Alf'd. Fiend, 1 egone ! Surely, some devil incarnate bus 
taken possession of your soul. 

Ther. 'Twere better to complete it now. [drauot 
Alf'd. Strike, I am prepared, [bares breast] 

No, no, no,, that were mercy. You shall die upon 
scaffold. I know there is agony in the thought; the cries, 
the gestures of the people us they part to allow you to ride 
through, will tear your very heart-strings. I bell nng-s I no 
b (gone. 

Alf'd, Farewell, then, and I trust forever 
Ther. Farewell, but not forever.' When, you mount the 
affold I will be by your side, to haunt j t n with ic; ; 
1 *esence. (aside) One hour .more, and ny destiny wil] 
fulfilled; then home, home to my father, for I would di 
his arms, with his kind voice breathing blessings od i 
in% ear. Farewell, (exit, 

Alf'd. Thank Heaven, she is goi 

.EMENC , L 

Clem. Alfred ! 



THE DAUGHTER OF THE PEOPLE. 45 

Alf'd You here, countess, I never thought to have sean 
you again. 

C] em. They tell me you must die to-day. Oh Alfred ! 
Alf'd. There is no mercy, I must die [bell rings 

Enter Jailer, and Attendants, R. 

Jailer. Count Alfred De Maury, I await you. 

Alf'd. Farewell, Clemeuce, farewell forever 

Clem. Farewell. We will meet in Heaven ! {faints | 



Scene yi—fi I(oom. Enter Jeanne and Peirre, R. 

Jean. xAnd you thought I was going to run away from you 

Pier Yes, I imagined you had become tired of me 

Jean. No, I love you just as much as ever. 

Pier. Thank you. 

Jean, But you must promise never, never, never, to get 
drunk again. 

Pier. Never! I hereby solemnly declare, that, etc. Now 
am I not a model husband 

Jean: Well, yes, you improve, but you are not perfect yet, 
you know, my dear. {exit, R) 

Pier. Hello, who knocks. 

Enter 1st Man, L. 

1st Man. How d'ye do, citizen Pi< 

Pier. Tolerable, thank you. 

1st Man. I have just come from the club. They are 
drinking, " Success to the new republic. " ? Take a pull. 

Pier. Thank you. 

1st Man. Say, hold on. 

Pier. Ah, how that warms me. Hold on, I'll give you a 
toast, " success to everybody.,, {drinks) And now that I think 
of it (getting tipsy) here's "success to you." (drinks) Whew, 
that is prime; now, here's '-success to me." [drinks] 

1st Man. I say, Pierre, you re getting tipsy. 

Pier Not a bit of it: never more sober in my life; I could 
encounter an army. 

1st Man. Well, here comes your wife; she's almost an 
army, with her tongue. 

Pier. Excuse me; guess I'll go down to the club, exeunt L 

Enter Jeanne, R. 
Jean. There he goes, and I declare, the man is drunk 
again Oh, won't I fix him. («***, L) 



4fi THE DAUGHTER <F THE PEOPLE 

SCENE VII — Same as jlot I, Scene III. twilight. Mekin- 
COURT seated on piazza. 

Mere Ah 3 how wearily the months have tied since she 
went away from me. Will she never return ? Therese, you 
were the only hope that bound me to life; now, that you are 
gone, I have nothing to live for. Like a dream she passed 
from beneath my roof, wherefore, I never knew . Is she dead 
that neither her destiny nor her name floats back to her old 
home and her aged father. Will I ever see her again on earth? 
Ah, is it a phantom — that face, those long tresses ! Great 
God it is my child. Therese, Therese, — oh, God ! my child. 

Ther. [staggers in, L. N. B —Her hair is white as snow, j 
No, no, old man, Theraigne, I am Theraigns, [faints at his feet) 

Meri. My child, my child, my own Therese, come home at 
last; but, ah, how changed. Soft, she lives. Therese! 

Ther Why, why, father, is that you ; have I been dreaming 

Mbri. God knows, child. Oh, how thin and pale you are, 

Ther. I must go to meet him. He did not come this morn, 
but when the stars are out he will come; one, two, three, oh ! 
now they come, sparkling together in clusters and groups, so 
bright that they almost fling shadows from the orange leaves 
upon the floor. Hush ! it is ! it is ! — do, no, he will not come, 
he is false ! (a pause) See, see, a tall man, with eyes like the 
summer sky, a white forehead, knitted with scorn; don't yon 
see him; look,he is standing up in a cart, his head uncovered, 
his neck bare to the shoulders, his hands, white and shapely, 
girded with cords, and a hideous frame of wood, half gallows 
half a mystery, looming up before him. Do you see him, 
shrinking and shuddering beneath my glance. Look, he 
bares his neck, the blade descends. Therese, thou art aven- 
ged ! ha, ha, ha, thou art avenged ! [dies, ) 

Meri. [kneels over her] Therese, my child, dead, dead! 
Jtfusio — tableau — Slow Curtain. 

END OF DRAMA. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

III 



UK. 

016 103 417 4 



